by K. E. Saxon
She and her family had been through so much these past moons since Morgana’s capture and subsequent rescue. They’d only been given leave by the King to return to the MacVie holding five sennights past, after having been obliged to stay as his guests at his castle at Sruighlea until her uncle’s trial and punishment were concluded. But now, with Donnach’s hanging witnessed, and well in the past; the furbishing and additional construction to the keep all but completed; and with the feasts for both the Yule and for this joyous occasion of the renewal of her mother and father’s vows planned o’er the next days before they at last would return to their own forsaken home, Aerariae secturae, Morgana finally could let all her sadness, her bitterness, her anger fly away, and simply enjoy the moment.
The prayer concluded, the priest invited the guests to rise from their kneeling stools and take their seats on the benches behind them. Robert aided her to rise then continued holding her hand as they settled together on their seats.
“Et ait faciamus hominem ad imaginem...,” the Priest intoned, beginning the first reading from the Book of Genesis.
A sudden fluttering movement beneath her breast made Morgana gasp aloud before she could restrain it, and she pressed her palm to the side of her belly.
“Is it the babe? Are you well?” Robert said anxiously, placing his own hand o’er hers.
The priest continued to read, but sent a stern glance in their direction, so Morgana shushed her husband and straightened on the bench, giving Robert a nod and a whispered, “I am well,” in answer. From a bit further down the bench, she caught a barely audible chuckle coming from Guy, and Robert made a distinctly un-holy hand gesture at him low enough so the priest could not see, which caused Guy to snort, then pretend to cough behind his hand, which, of course, made him the next target for the priest’s baleful gaze, which then, again of course, made her husband sit back with his arms folded and with a satisfied grin upon his visage. Robert’s nine-year-old nephew, David, who was seated on Robert’s other side, leaned forward and grinned at both his uncle and their Norman neighbor, and Morgana pressed a finger to her lips, indicating he should be still and quiet. The smile dissolved and he settled back again. Lads! They were naught more than unruly lads. But they were hers, and she loved them all. Quietly, she slid her hand onto Robert’s thigh and was set aglow when he took it in his and twined their fingers together. It took everything within her not to sigh and settle her head on his shoulder.
Thankfully, the remainder of the wedding service held the solemnity it deserved, and when ‘twas over, they rose from their seats and proceeded from the chapel behind the couple. Once her mother and father were seated in their places at the long table upon the dais in the great hall, and the wine had been poured into all of the cups, Robert raised his high and said, “The clan MacVie has much to be thankful for, but let us this night lift our cups to Morgunn and Gwynlyan!” and all about them shouted “Aye!” then drained their vessels in one long pull. Morgana could not help but smile in absolute pride. Aye, another man might have said much more, but for Robert, that public address was a true accomplishment. Recalling how ill at ease he had been at their own wedding feast, she, at least, could see the transformation in him, and knew the toll such a change was taking on him as well.
In fact, when he sat down, she could see clearly the sheen of sweat on his brow and upper lip, and was struck again with pride for him. She leaned in and placed a kiss on his cheek, saying, “Well done, my love, well done.”
He shrugged self-consciously, and dug into the trencher, spearing a large piece of venison with his knife, then shoveling it into his mouth.
Her heart fluttered and she swallowed a sigh. He was just so wonderful. Truly, she felt so blessed. She sent a silent thank you for about the millionth time to her absent cousin Vika for giving her the chance to be with Robert that first time.
“I love you.” She only realized she’d said it aloud when Robert stopped chewing and turned his warm silver gaze upon her. She watched his throat work as he swallowed, saw his expression gentle, heard him murmur gruffly, “I love you, too,” before he leaned over and settled upon her mouth a not-so-chaste kiss. As his tongue caressed hers, her blood heated, and, held captive by his virile will, she could do naught but delight in the heated embrace. After a long moment, and from what seemed a thousand miles away, came the shouts and slamming down of flagons on tabletops by their guests. From closer still, came her father’s familiar voice saying, “This is our feast, remember you that?”
Morgana grinned and so did Robert, but he kept kissing her anyway, which seemed to cause much mirth in David, for she heard the bell-like laddish giggles begin behind Robert’s broad shoulders. Finally, she broke away, breathless, but with her spirits floating above her. The only thing that would make this feast even more perfect would be to have Vika and Grímr, and their newborn son, Hildrgrímr, here with them as well. Why had Vika not sent her the letter herself? Why had Grímr sent the letter to Robert, and not her? The letter they’d received a few days past had been brief, with naught more than the tidings of the recent birth; that the babe had the look of Grímr, with pale-hair, blue-eye, and was hearty and hale; and that Vika was doing well within its text. Men were so vexing! Did they not know that ladies craved a full account of such things? She had already begun a long letter to Vika herself, and Morgana would beg for an answer to all her questions quickly, and in return.
A commotion was heard near the entry to the great hall, and a wash of pleasure went through her as she looked with anticipation toward the doorway. She felt Robert move beside her, then the warm, calloused comfort of his hand on hers.
“Is this the thing you were telling me of?” he asked low.
“Aye,” she said through her smile, never taking her gaze from the entry.
As was expected, the lyre player began the soft, ceremonial tune, and she soon saw the line of spinners, dyers and weavers come into the chamber one at a time, dressed in the fine colored cloth Morgana’s new trade had afforded. The last two carried in front of them bolts of fine wool. One, the color of copper, meticulously spun, then woven, then died to match her mother’s aspect, and the other the blue of the midnight sky, to complement her father’s eyes.
When they were positioned as Morgana had requested, she gave a nod to the head spinner and head weaver, and they each took one of the colored bolts from the two others’ arms and presented them to the wedded pair. As rehearsed, the head weaver said, “This fine cloth from our Lady’s own looms is her gift to you on this, your wedding day.”
Murmurs of approval traveled through the room, as the guests looked with delight upon the brightly colored gifts. Her mother and father leaned forward and saluted her with a smile and mouthed praise.
She felt her cheeks heat with pleasure and dipped her head in a sudden spell of shyness.
Robert’s arm came around her and he pulled her into his side, giving her a squeeze and whispering in her ear, “ ‘Tis lovely, Morgana.”
“My thanks,” she said softly.
All at once, she felt more than saw a presence in front of their section of the table and lifted her gaze. Again, a wash of pleasure went through her and she smiled, a question in her countenance, at the group of spinners, dyers and weavers, and now even the larderers, the maids, and a host of the other women who worked at the keep, had made a mass congregation before her.
“This, my lady,” the head spinner said, stepping forward with yet another bolt of dark lavender colored samite, “is from us to you, and is the first and best bolt from our new silk weaving looms. You’ve aided our Laird and aided our clan. You’ve helped to bring prosperity back to us here, and for this, we give you our thanks.”
When she’d first arrived home, after so many moons away, she’d worried that her place with the women—already precarious, or so she had felt—would be even more so. But she’d been wrong. The women of the clan, the women of the keep had welcomed, and even pampered her. And o’er the past sennights, she had f
ound the added space, as well as a means of beginning the cloth trade she’d hoped to establish all those moons ago. In fact, there was now a store room filling with bolts upon bolts of the MacVie wool and silk to be sold the next holy day and fair.
Morgana reached out and ran her hand o’er the slick cloth, saying, “ ‘Tis the loveliest cloth I’ve e’er seen! My thanks.”
The women dipped in courtesy, then took all three of the bolts of cloth out of the feasting hall so that they would not get stained, and Morgana could not take her eyes from them as they left the chamber, so proud was she of them, so humbled, and awed as well.
Robert lifted the chalice of wine and offered it to her, and she gratefully took a sip of the cool liquid. With a sigh, she sat back in her chair and allowed the images of all the coins they’d garner from selling all that cloth in not too long a time to whirl through her thoughts.
The pipers began to play a familiar melody, and it brought Morgana from her thoughts. The musician moved in graceful, dance-like steps toward her, and when he was just below her place at the raised table, he beckoned her with a wave of his hand. Robert nudged her, leaning down to whisper in her ear, “Sing for us, Morgana. Sing this for your mother and father.”
Her face flamed and she started to shake her head, but then her gaze traveled to her mother’s and she saw the longing in her eyes, so she gave a nod and rose to her feet. Once off the dais, she moved to the area that had been cleared for the musicians and, after the lyre player and piper were in their positions as well, she began to softly, hesitantly, sing the song, in the ancient tongue, that her mother had sung to her so oft when Morgana was but a wee lass:
Upon th’ misty moor did I
Go tha’ fateful morn . . .
She allowed her gaze to drift from her mother’s gleaming one to her father’s. His was filled with the same pride and love for her that her mother’s held, and it gave her courage to lift her voice higher for the next verse:
And lay me down upon the ground
To ‘wait me fey tribe’s horn . . .
And on she went, singing all ten of the verses. It seemed as if a sennight had past by the time she sang the last note, and the dampness in her palms no doubt matched that on her brow. Still, she exulted in the clamorous show of approval she received from all the guests once the song ended. She let her gaze fall on her husband, and her spirits soared higher still when she caught his broad smile and tender look. He motioned to her to return to him, and she dipped a swift courtesy to the crowd, then quickly, and gratefully, obeyed.
When she was seated once more at his side, he murmured against her ear, “I shall ne’er tire of your voice, Morgana. Will you sing to me again later, when I am inside you?”
Her cheeks turned hotter still and she darted a glance around him to David, who thankfully had his attention upon his trencher and had not heard, before answering, “Aye, always, if you wish it.” She felt the now-familiar fluttering of her babe, like butterfly wings, inside her womb, and said with a hand on her belly, “I think he likes my song as well. He dances.”
Robert’s marvelous grin lit his visage once more and he settled his palm on the small mound of her belly as well. “He’s a strong one.”
Her heart constricted. “Aye. You said the same of our first.”
He didn’t respond immediately, instead his eyes scanned her countenance, then met her eyes. Finally he said, “We would not have lost him had you not been poisoned, Morgana. You must believe that.” He paused again, but only in the time it took to blink an eye. “I must believe that.”
A hand settled on her shoulder and she started. ‘Twas her mother.
“The babe is hale, and so are you, daughter. I know these things. Besides, Wife Deirdre says the same, so do not forget.”
A calm settled upon Morgana. She lifted her countenance to her mother’s and gave her a wide smile. “Aye, you are right.”
“May I go to my bedchamber now, Uncle?” David said to Robert.
“Aye.” After only a small pause, he said, “Are you missing Callum and Branwenn and the feast at the Maclean holding this year?”
He swiped a fallen lock of sandy blond hair off his brow “Aye, I miss them, but….” He looked up at the rafters, a pensive look upon his visage. In that moment she saw a trace of Robert there and her heart melted even more for the young orphaned lad.
Morgana held her breath and without realizing it, placed her hand o’er the one her mother still had resting on Morgana’s shoulder.
Finally, David continued, saying, “But I’m glad I came to stay with you this Yule. Your lady wife is pretty and she lets my dog sleep in my bed with me.”
Robert turned to her with one brow lifted and said, “Truly? Hmmm.”
Morgana felt her cheeks heat, but she said, “Jasper’s a good dog—I could not see the harm.”
One side of Robert’s mouth lifted and he stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers, then turned back to David, saying, “Off with you then, and take a meaty bone up for the hound—but he must gnaw it by the hearth, not in your bed.”
“Aye, Uncle,” David said with renewed energy.
While David went to gather a bone for Jasper, Morgana turned back to her mother and said, “Are you ready to go to your bride’s bed now?”
Her mother returned the smile. “Aye—and so is your father.” She’d barely spoken the last syllable when Morgunn strode up behind them as well and placed a proprietary hand on the small of her mother’s back, saying to Morgana, “You’ve the voice of an angel, daughter. I’d forgot that song until you sang it just now.” He didn’t wait for an answer, but turned to her mother and said, “Let us be off to our chamber, my love, for I’ll not wait another moment to finally have you again in my bed, where you belong.”
Her mother’s cheeks turned crimson, and Morgana could have sworn she saw worry, doubt, or even a small amount of fear flash in her eyes as well, but ‘twas gone so quickly, she decided she’d imagined it when Gwynlyan took Morgunn’s arm and they both departed the dais with a bit of a skip in their stride.
As Morgana watched the swaying backs of the couple move across the great hall and out the door, Robert touched her cheek and whispered, “Take me to bed, wife.”
“Aye,” she answered.
And she did.
~ THE END ~
Don’t miss the bonus material that follows:
The additional chapter of Gwynlyan and Morgunn’s wedding night and their love story’s resolution that could not be fitted within the scope of Robert and Morgana’s tale, but beckoned that it be told nevertheless.
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OF US THAT TRADE IN LOVE
(Morgunn & Gwynlyan)
By
K.E. Saxon
OF US THAT TRADE IN LOVE
(Morgunn & Gwynlyan)
Copyright © 2014 by K.E. Saxon
http://www.kesaxon.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author K.E. Saxon, the copyright owner and publisher of this book, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the publisher. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in its work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Cover image obtained from Jenn LeBlanc / Illustrated Romance
Cover Design by K.E. Saxon
Of Us That Trade in Love
(Morgunn &
Gwynlyan)
As Morgunn all but dragged her by the hand from the great hall, Gwynlyan pasted what she hoped would be perceived as a smile of anticipatory joy on her lips, very much aware of the friendly and amused gazes of all their well-wishers watching them as they made their way out of the feasting chamber to go to her bride’s bed for the night.
“At last, at last, my Gwynlyan, I’ll have you thrashing and moaning ’neath me again in mere moments,” Morgunn said, a little too loud for Gwynlyan’s liking, and she darted a glance to the nearest table of guests. She didn’t know why she’d bothered, as the snorts of mirth would have told her just the same: Aye, they’d heard him. “Truly, Morgunn. Must you be so lewd?” she said sotto voce.
“You used to like it when I spoke in that way to you,” he said in like tones.
She felt her cheeks flame and his eyes twinkled at her before he tossed his head back and gave forth a great belly laugh. Even that did not slow his stride.
In another moment, they were alone together on the stairs, away from all prying eyes, and Gwynlyan allowed her guard down, but only slightly. For, the true trial was only just beginning. In a matter of moments, he’d have her in their chamber and expect her to strip bare for him, as she’d intimated, but not promised in words, she’d finally do once the obligation for the ceremony and feast were concluded.